


01:15

by NathanielCardeu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 16:42:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10880820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NathanielCardeu/pseuds/NathanielCardeu
Summary: They swore it was over… but in the dark, loneliness of the night, resolve is hard to come by…





	1. Picture Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing! The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.
> 
> Another old story, originally from GE
> 
> *original author notes*  
> Yes… I know… I’ve written a Dramione. What has the world come to? Inspired by another song this had Dramione written all over it. So, against my better judgement, I wrote the damn thing! *mutters* stupid blond plot bunny…
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> With thanks to my awesome beta: foggybythebay and eternal thanks to shinigamioni as well for the advice, suggestions, cheerleading and generally being awesome – you both rock!

The clock on the wall set a rhythm to the night. The seconds counted out like little hammers striking stone, each minute an eternity. Outside she could hear the steady patter of rain, trickling in the gutters, spattering against the window, and the rumble of distant thunder. The rest of the world was silent, those two sounds the only noise. No, that wasn’t quite true. Somewhere in the darkness of the flat, at the foot of the bed, was a low rumbling sound. It was soothing, comforting, in a way that the march of time, highlighted by the clock, could never be. But it was another noise in the darkness, cutting through the night.

 

Hermione sighed and opened her eyes, giving up on sleep entirely now. Between the clock’s persistent ticks, the building storm outside, Crookshanks' low snoring and her own thoughts, sleep was impossible.

 

The big, ginger cat gave a small start as Hermione pulled her legs up towards her. He watched his mistress sit up and rest her back against the head board, resting her forehead on her knees. Realising that nothing interesting was happening and he was unlikely to be getting fed anytime soon, Crookshanks stretched, turned and settled back down again.

 

Hermione’s breathing was deep and ragged; she was cold, her head was aching from the wine she had drunk not long before and there was an urge to cry deep inside her. She couldn’t bring herself to tears however, even though she desperately needed them. She felt only a bone-deep numbness that kept that depth of emotion at bay.

 

She simply felt empty and isolated from everything. Even the cold that nipped at her bare legs and arms did little to stir her.

 

Simple need finally made her move; no matter how awful she felt, she wasn’t so far gone as to wet the bed. With another sigh she swung her legs out of bed and stood, holding onto the wooden bedside table for support as the room swung around her head for a moment. That bottle of wine had been effective in one way, though it hadn’t removed the memories she needed erased.

 

She tugged her light night gown down around her thighs and straightened the thin shoulder straps, regretting her choice the short one now that she stood in the chill room. She stumbled towards the bathroom, snatching her dressing gown from the back of the door before dropping, gracelessly onto the toilet and draping the gown over her legs. Her head dropped onto her lap and a low groan escaped her. Her hair, wild and bushy at the best of times, splayed out in all directions over her legs as part of her felt a moment of relief.

 

She sat there, long after she had finished, partly hoping for the toilet to swallow her up. Maybe then her head would stop throbbing. From the lounge she heard the little, silver carriage clock, a gift from the cause of her apathy, play its little tune before striking the hour. Just the one chime – it was only one o’clock in the morning. If she was lucky she might have a chance at a sensible night’s sleep… if she _could_ find sleep tonight.

 

“What’s the point?” she asked her knees, her voice croaking slightly.

 

It was a short time later that Hermione shuffled into the lounge in her dressing gown, her arms wrapped tightly around her body. She surveyed the mess she had left behind; the dishes piled in the sink from last night’s dinner, the fireplace with its barely smouldering embers, the glass and almost empty bottle of wine on the table, an empty box sat on the couch with her wand resting in it, the photos from the box scattered around where she had been trying to organise them.

 

She scuffed her way over to the sofa, casting a look over to the kitchen area. She would normally have cleared up before going to bed but the combination of photograph organising and too much wine had driven her to bed feeling fuzzy headed and maudlin over her own situation. The kitchen window was being battered by the rain, the wind picking up speed and sweeping the glowering clouds across the night sky. The rain swept across the glass like the waves of the sea, each one rattling the window. The sky was lit up momentarily by a flash of lightning, the thunder grumbling a few seconds later.

 

With a sigh she settled herself in the open space where she had sat before, surrounded by the photos. Looking at them she saw all of her friends waving and smiling, sunny scenes, snowy scenes, party scenes, Harry, Ron, Luna… good times all of them.

 

She began to gather the remaining photos together, unable to bear looking at all the happy smiling faces any longer. She needed sleep, if only for her own sanity, but she wanted to tidy the lounge up a little first. Shutting the albums she stacked them on the glass table, promising herself that she would put them away in the morning. Pulling the box over to her she plucked her wand out and set it on the table before picking up the pile of photos and dropping them into the box. The box joined the albums on the table. Looking around for any stragglers she noticed the corner of one sticking out from under the couch. She pulled at it and it came out, with friends.

 

Hermione released the corner of the photograph as if it had burned her. It was one of a bundle, all secured with a twist of red ribbon, gold thread running through it in an intricate pattern. The photographs, maybe fifty in all, sat there, mute and terrifying in their silence.

 

She vaguely remembered stuffing them under the couch earlier, refusing to look at them; she couldn’t help but see them now. They held memories too and they used to be happy ones. Now they were painful and she wanted to refuse them space in her heart.

 

But she found herself toying with the ribbon, her hands involuntarily pulling the bundle towards her. A burning pain was building behind her eyes, the sting of tears pricking their little daggers of sorrow into her mind, begging for release. If you let us go, they whispered, you would feel better.

 

But she couldn’t cry over him. She had promised herself… the bastard didn’t deserve her tears, didn’t deserve anything. He had thrown her away; cast her aside when he could no longer use her. She didn’t care how unfair an assessment of the man that was, she was still hurt and angry.

 

She looked up at the fireplace, remembering the last time she had spoken to him.

 

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

 

**Two Weeks Ago…**

 

He turned his back and walked away. “It’s over, Granger,” he said. “Just face it and move on. I have.”

 

They were in Hermione’s flat. Around them candles flickered. The romantic dinner Hermione took extra care to prepare grew cold on the table, the candles and scented oils burning in the bedroom remained unnoticed, as too the soft music that surrounded them.

 

Hermione sat on the couch in her favourite dress, _his_ favourite, still reeling from his announcement, feeling sick to her stomach. The dress was long and elegant, black with silver stitching, accenting her figure nicely. Now, however, it was restricting, making breathing difficult. The lingerie under her dress was suddenly incredibly uncomfortable, its clips and straps seemingly tighter than they had been before. She was only able to stare at his back as he walked to the fireplace and reached for the Floo powder. “So that’s it?” she asked in a small voice. “’Just face it’? That’s all you’ve got to say to me, after four years?”

 

He stopped, his arms dropping to his sides, small grains of the Floor powder trickling through the fingers of his left hand. His right reached up to grip the mantelpiece, for support it seemed. His head was bowed and Hermione stood quickly, taking a hesitant step towards him, one arm extending as if to take hold of him. “Just because your father…” she began tentatively but he whirled around, his blond hair flicking away from his storm grey eyes; eyes that stirred her heart and fired her senses whenever they met hers. Even now, with anger filling them, he was an incredible sight to behold.

 

But his words stole all of the fight from her.

 

Throwing the Floo powder behind him, the fire exploding into green flames at his back, he glared at her. “My father,” he grated, his tone angry, his words clipped. “My father is right. _We_ are not a good match. _I_ am from a pure-blood family and _you_ are the spawn of Muggles! It would never work; I don’t know why I ever thought it would.

 

“Besides,” he said with a sneer that sucked the breath from Hermione’s chest and made her step away from him. “Father has already assured me that a pure-blooded family from France is clamouring for a connection to the Malfoy name. They have wealth, power and a young, beautiful daughter to marry off.” His eyes looked her up and down with contempt; his expression broke Hermione’s heart in two. “I don’t need to grub in the dirt with you anymore.”

 

“Get out."

 

For a moment he just stood there as if he hadn’t heard. The words had been quiet but cut through the air like a well aimed hex. Hermione was barely able to see, barely even recognised her own voice. Her eyes stung and her heart was pounding. “Get out of my flat and never come back. I don’t want to see your arrogant, pointed, ferret-like face, ever again. You hear me!?” Her voice rose with each word, getting more piercing by the second, until she was shrieking like a banshee. “You think I want to be with a spineless prick, like you? Go play with your little French whore, you… you-you… MALFOY MANOR!!”

 

The fire behind him flared at once, a destination voiced at last, a lurid green light casting a renewed glow over the room. The stunning spell, cast from Hermione’s wand, caught Draco full in the chest. He was blasted backwards, into the flames and wrenched away with a small pop.

 

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

 

And now it was two weeks later and she _was_ crying; large, hot tears that fell into her lap, burning as they flowed. All the pain that she had bottled up, all the rage at the way he left her, the reason he left her, her frustration at the unfairness of it all… She hadn’t even _wanted_ to fall in love with the arrogant bastard in the first place! And _he_ had dumped _her_! What gave him the right?

 

Rage boiled over in her veins, a fury so hot and violent that she felt the very air churn around her. Her hair seemed to crackle with static and her breath was fast and heavy as she snatched up her wand and blasted the fireplace. The embers caught, swirled to life again by the jet of violet flame. With a shriek of rage, Hermione snatched the photos from the carpet and hurled them across the room.

 

Almost the very instant they left her hand she screamed, “No!!” and toppled forward, sprawling full length on the carpet, arms outstretched, desperately taking her actions back. Her body was wracked with powerful sobs, her face in the soft carpet, a dishevelled and broken figure in a short night gown.

 

It was a few minutes before she could bear to look up. The violet flames danced merrily in the fireplace with the occasional pop of the remaining logs. And hovering a short distance before the fireplace was the bundle of photos. Hermione had been holding her wand when she had shouted.

 

The red and gold ribbon was starting to blacken at the edges with the continued exposure to the heat of the fire and Hermione scuttled forward on her hands and knees, snatching the bundle from the air and cradling them like a mother with her babe. She couldn’t let them burn, no matter how angry she was, she couldn’t bear to lose these memories.

 

Quickly, panting and gasping in her emotional state she pulled the smouldering ribbon off of the photos, already seeing that the topmost photo had been kissed by the flame, a small amount of smoke marred the perfect white of the back. She pulled the photo from the bundle, letting the ribbon fall to the floor. Turning the photo over, she gave a moan of sorrow as she saw the picture.

 

There he was, dressed in a heavy winter coat and gloves, the jet black material sprinkled with bright white snow. His hair was a shocking contrast to his clothes and his face, his pale skin and grey eyes, in sharp relief against the darkness of the trees in the background. They used to say that he had a pointed face but she hadn’t thought of him like that in a long time. ‘They’ were Hermione’s friends, Harry, Ron, most everyone from Gryffindor… and her too she admitted to herself. She used to call him ‘ferret’, or just Malfoy, somehow managing to make it rhyme with ‘scum’. She had hated him.

 

And then they had been forced to spend time together in their seventh year at Hogwarts. And something had changed. Even now she couldn’t remember what it was but one minute he had been ‘that ferret, Malfoy’, despised and reviled… then, the next, he was Draco, an almost completely different person.

 

She had been drawn to him. She had discovered a side to him, a deeper side, buried; smothered almost, that just wanted someone to talk to. And they had talked; they had become a talking point themselves. The pure-blood and the Mudblood, what a scandal!

 

In the background of the photograph was a girl in a light coloured winter coat, scarf and ear muffs, laughing, collecting more snow to throw. It was her, when she had been happy – when _they_ had been happy together. Hermione watched the snowball fight for a few minutes before dropping the photograph to the floor, heart heavier than ever.

 

Almost as if compelled she picked the next photo up off of the pile and turned it to look. Another scene with the same people; they were dancing in a pool of light this time. A party vividly remembered with a pained moan. Her dress was long and straight; a blood-red, strapless affair with a short train that fell in waves at the back. The material was gathered at the knee and hip with a smattering of red, satin roses. A simple necklace of clear stones caught the light and sparkled at her throat. Her hair was tamed, held in an intricate twist that allowed ringlets to spill around her face. She remembered the feel of that dress, the soft caress of the material against her skin and his arms around her, holding her so gently, yet so securely.

 

His suit was immaculate, black as midnight with a tailed jacket hugging his frame perfectly. His soft, blond hair hung down, framing his face as he looked into her eyes. Together they turned and spun about the floor to the silent music, endlessly dancing, their gazes intense and excluding all others. Hermione could hear, in her mind’s eye, the tune that the band played.

 

The photo slipped through her fingers to the floor and another was turned upwards, faster now: her blowing kisses on a beach in Spain, him raising a glass in a quiet, English bar, the sun setting behind him over a picturesque rural scene, the two of them kissing on a balcony, the night sky filled with diamonds, sparkling behind them.

 

Her with him, him with her,

 

So many times, so many places; so much love, so much passion.

 

Each photograph was glistening with her tears now as they fell to the floor, her heart clenching. Soon her hands were empty, the remaining photos falling in a heap. Around her they lay, each one a perfect moment from their shared past.

 

She should hate him for what he had said to her that last time they were together, that had ended in her stunning him. But she still loved him, still wanted him back. Did that make her pathetic? To want someone who clearly didn’t want her? Did he ever think of her, the way he always seemed to find his way into her thoughts? Did he lay awake at night thinking of her, wishing his words back; wishing that he had defied his father and married the Mudblood after all?

 

He must have wanted to, no matter his words. He had proposed to her, told her that she was his for all time and that he could never be without her. But a single word from Lucius Malfoy had changed everything.

 

The terrible patriarch of Malfoy Manor had forbidden the union. And Draco… that spineless, no good, bastard ferret! Draco had capitulated. Gave up on her, just like that. Oh, sure, there had been arguments between father and son, Draco had told her about them; blazing rows that had lasted days. Hermione was under no delusions that Lucius Malfoy was anything other than horrified at the thought of her getting dirt on his pristine lineage.

 

But then Draco had stopped fighting; just folded and told her that it was over.

 

It was that sudden turn around that hurt the most – from fight to surrender in the space of a night. Hermione looked at the photos that lay scattered around her bare legs and felt another wave of sorrow roll her under. As the sobs shook her and the tears began to flow once more, the little silver carriage clock cheerfully chimed the quarter hour. Hermione simply folded where she knelt, rolling onto her side, curling into a ball with her hands covering her head. The memories lay all around her, mocking her with their simple happiness.

 


	2. Another Shot of Firewhiskey

The dirty glass of the window was being battered by the rain. With the wind surging, the dark clouds galloped across the night sky; black riders in the vanguard of an invading storm. The rain attacked the glass in waves, scrubbing the grime into streaks and distorting his reflection.

 

Draco rested his forehead against the glass for a moment and, looking through his dark twin within the window pane, gazed out at the town. Hogsmeade was a muted creature, squatting in the bleak night, waiting out the storm; cold and alone. He felt the same, despite the light and warmth at his back, the laughter of his Slytherin school friends as they discussed their latest conquests in the realm of romance.

 

Reflected in the window, out of the corner of his eye, Draco could see Theo Nott, sat beside him. On the opposite seat were Blaise Zabini, Gregory Goyle and Adrian Pucey - Pucey miming out the assets of his latest flame. The dark-haired, handsome man was keen to show that the girl was quite endowed in the breast department. Draco returned his attention to the town. He had blocked out as much of their conversation as he could, fed up with the inane prattle but the laughter that greeted Pucey’s next miming action penetrated his defences. The happiness in it cut through him. Goyle’s moronic laugh, always a fraction behind everyone else, was especially grating tonight.

 

At least _they_ were enjoying themselves, he thought to himself, bitterly. His head swam slightly from the alcohol he had consumed so far that night. They had started early, his friends desperately trying to cheer him up and, until they had reached this particular pub, they had been succeeding. He had lost interest in their conversation shortly after arriving and had merely sat staring out the window, mute and numb. His black pullover felt tight around his throat, restricting his breathing. There was a burning lump at the back of his throat that firewhiskey couldn’t seem to shift.

 

His heart gave a sudden leap as he heard the door to the pub bang open and his head snapped round, blond hair flicking over his eyes. Disappointment filled him when a wizened old witch staggered in, leaning on her heavily decorated cane. He watched with mild amusement as she struggled with the door, the elements forcing their way in and holding the door open. She muttered and gasped as the door fought her until another patron came to her rescue and helped to push the door closed.

 

With the momentary amusement gone Draco slumped back in the booth – one of five positioned along the back wall of the building – facing the bar, his head against the window again and looking past Theo. The large bar was flanked on either side by roaring fireplaces, facing into the open floor, warding the patrons from the chill, wintry weather. The bar, with its row of high stools, sat between the two fireplaces; its warden was currently in quiet discussion with two goblins that nursed tankards of some frothy concoction. Their conversation was low but intense, the barkeep seemingly on the defensive. Above the bar, a simple clock kept the time. In the open space before the bar were four large tables, each one occupied by a number of witches and wizards in differing quality of clothing – this was not, however, indicative of their rank in the Wizarding world. Draco noted that a shabby looking witch had the ear of a finely dressed wizard and, though it seemed to cause him discomfort to do so, the wizard was agreeing with everything the witch said. In front of each fireplace was another table, vacant due to the proximity of the fires. The right wall of the pub held the door to the latrines but Draco’s attention kept straying to the door on the left wall, the front door.

 

He kept hoping to see her come in, to simply open the door and stroll into his life again. Even if she came sweeping in, like she had that first time; a beautiful, wild-haired, avenging angel tearing him down in front of his peers. Merlin, she had been magnificent!

 

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

 

**Four years, four months, fourteen days, ten hours and about fifteen minutes ago… give or take…**

 

**Just before 3pm…**

 

“… and the Mudblood said, “I suppose I asked for that really!” The laughter that erupted was loud, raucous and appreciative. Three of the four young men, sat around the table in the Hogsmeade pub, wore similar robes – robes that marked them as students in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the huge edifice that dominated the landscape above the town. The remaining man, only slightly the elder by all appearances, wore simple clothes of a fine cut. In front of each of the four were at least one empty tankard and a couple of empty shot glasses.

 

One of the four was a hulking figure with small, beady eyes and his short bristly hair sat low on his forehead. He laughed his rasping laugh in a sycophantic way, eyes flicking from man to man, trying to gauge when he should stop laughing; Gregory Goyle had never had the intellect for any form of wit - even a direct and abusive joke about Muggle-borns went over his head. To Goyle’s left sat Theo Nott, thin, tall and gangling, his large ears giving him a rabbit-like appearance as he howled with laughter, head thrown back, hands slapping the table in appreciation. Opposite Nott sat Adrian Pucey, the eldest of the four, his short, dark hair topped a handsome face with dark eyes. He leaned back, basking in the adulation of his friends after the telling of another fine joke, whilst slapping the remaining man on the back.

 

This was because that man was Draco Malfoy, and he was currently bent over, coughing hard as butterbeer tried to escape through his nose. Adrian’s joke had caught him out and he had been taking a long pull on his drink when the punch line fell. His blonde hair hung around his face, dripping with butterbeer as he laughed and coughed, choking and snorting as Pucey bashed him on the back repeatedly.

 

Gasping for breath Draco surfaced to renewed laughter (Goyle just a fraction behind everyone else) as they caught sight of his face, wet and blotched from the laughter. Draco joined in, knowing that he looked a mess but still finding the whole thing terribly funny. He did enjoy a good Mudblood joke. He struggled to compose himself, wiping his face on the sleeve of his robe.

 

“Take it I missed the punch line?” said a tall, dark-skinned, handsome man as he approached the table, leading a barmaid who carried a tray, laden with five tankards and ten small glasses, the latter filled with a dark, amber liquid. As Blaise Zabini took his seat, the barmaid distributed the drinks to each of the men and, with a cheeky wink at Pucey, sashayed away.

 

“Gentlemen!” declared Pucey, standing and lifting one of the small glasses, a firewhiskey shot. “Here is to you. You should have been at school!” The others laughed, standing and lifting a shot each.

 

“To the ignorance of Filch, who didn’t see us leave!” said Blaise.

 

“Yeah,” muttered Goyle. “He didn’t see us leave!”

 

“To not looking after First Years when some of us should be!” declared Theo, with a wink at Draco.

 

Malfoy laughed and raised his glass. “To the greatest of our accomplishments… Hermione Granger?” His toast faltered as he saw the all-too-familiar figure of the bushy-haired witch outside, striding towards the door of the pub. Even from this distance he could see the fire in her eyes and knew that shirking his job as first year shepherd was probably a bad idea – especially since his fellow Head of year had found him!

 

“What?” asked the others, not seeing the banshee descending upon them. Both Theo and Goyle spilled their firewhiskey as the door to the pub smashed against the wall and Hermione Granger stomped into the room.

 

“DRACO MALFOY!” she yelled in a voice that chilled the air considerably. The other patrons looked for a moment before returning to their business but in a more intense manner than before. Everyone knew of Hermione.

 

Storming up to the table, Hermione pointed her wand at Draco’s face. The sleeve of her robe rode up her arm and his eyes were drawn to the scar on her forearm. He could never see that scar, permanent wounds in Hermione’s flesh that spelled “ _mudblood_ ” – courtesy of his deranged aunt – without a twinge of guilt.

 

“YOU!” Hermione shouted. “You are supposed to be in the Great Hall with me, looking after the first years! It’s the Halloween party tonight and YOU are not where you should be!”

 

Hermione’s tirade sent Goyle staggering backwards, away from the table. Zabini and Nott sat down with a thump and only Pucey seemed unfazed by Hermione’s outburst.

 

“Don’t think I haven’t seen all of your sycophantic friends here, too!” Her wand pointed at each of them in turn though her eyes never left Draco, who was rooted to the spot – half sitting, shot still in hand. “Goyle, you should be in History of Magic! Zabini and Nott – you too. Pucey…”

 

“Hey!” Adrian interrupted. “You’ve got no authority over me, Granger. I left Hogwarts over a year ago and your rules don’t apply to me.”

 

Pucey’s calm leaked away when Hermione’s baleful gaze turned to him. “ _You_ have helped four Hogwarts students skip their duties and classes and helped them get alcohol during school hours. I also know that you should be at work in the Ministry, your lunch break finished twenty minutes ago and your boss is going to be investigating your absence very shortly.”

 

Pucey’s confident smile faded completely by this point. “Wha… why… why would…”

 

“Because he is about to receive an anonymous letter, by owl, declaring you to be missing from your post,” Hermione said primly, recovering some of her poise. Tilting her head back slightly, she returned her gaze to Draco, who still hadn’t moved. Over the sound of Pucey Disapparating, Hermione spoke to Draco, calmly, with a layer of frost. “You are going to accompany me back to Hogwarts and help keep the First Years in line. Do that, and I will ignore this infraction of Hogwarts rules, just this once.”

 

Draco felt his anger rising now. How dare she just come in and break up this gathering, she acted like she owned the place! “Not going to happen, Granger. Blaise just bought us all fresh drinks and we are going to enjoy them first.” He settled down, leaning back, his grey eyes flashing with defiance. “That’s the way it’s going to be.”

 

The others slowly settled down around the table, following Draco’s lead, pointedly picking up their glasses and looking at Hermione, waiting for her to leave.

 

She looked around at the group, sighing with frustration. “So, that’s your final word then, Malfoy?” When Draco nodded she tossed her head angrily. “When your drink is gone you’ll come back up to the castle?”

 

“With unseemly haste, ma’am,” Draco said silkily, a sneer crossing his lips. Part of him was worried about the small smile that appeared on Hermione’s face – she was up to something.

 

“Fine.”

 

Reaching across the table, she plucked the firewhiskey from Draco’s hand and drank the shot in one. As the glass slammed down, she had already picked up his second shot. It disappeared as quick as the first, the glass hitting the table as she snagged his pint of butterbeer from the tray. Draco and the other Slytherins could only watch in silent wonder as Hermione tilted back her head and drank the butterbeer in surprisingly few gulps. Draco could not take his eyes from her and was startled back to reality when she slammed the tankard down, cleared her throat with a delicate shudder and grabbed him by the collar. “No more drink, now move!”

 

Hauled out of his chair and propelled towards the door, Draco looked to his fellow House mates for help. Each one held up their hands, or shrugged. Goyle waved hesitantly. It was clear that they wanted no part of Hermione now, not in this mood.

 

Draco was pushed outside, into the cold air, and instantly felt a little light headed from the alcohol. Someone barged into his back and there was a high pitched squeal and a scuffling sound. Turning quickly, Draco caught Hermione as her feet slipped out from under her, the mud from the recent rain making the well-used path treacherous. His arms wrapped around her, hers were flung about his neck and Draco felt his own legs tremble and threaten to slip in the mud.

 

For a long time, the pair of them were frozen, staring into one another’s eyes, embracing each other, both at the point of falling to the floor. He could feel her breath on his cheek, see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, and the curve of her lips.

 

Then, Hermione gathered her feet underneath her and pulled herself upright with a small laugh. “Sorry, I think the whiskey has gone to my head.” Malfoy still held onto her and her hands gripped him tightly.

 

“You could have just knocked the glasses over, rather than drinking them,” Draco said, quietly, captivated by her gaze.

 

Clearing her throat she pulled out of his grip and stepped away. “Yes, well, that would have been wasteful. Besides, it’s cold out and I’ll be glad of the extra warmth for the walk back up.” Turning quickly, she strode up the slope towards the castle, all business again. “Come along now.”

 

Draco stood for a moment, still feeling the warmth of her body in his arms and wondered what had just happened. It had felt like electricity racing through his body when her eyes met his. There had been a moment when he had felt this wild urge to kiss her. And there had been a hint of a blush on her pale skin when she had spoken about extra warmth. Shoving his hands in his pockets he stomped after her. Whatever it was it was, over and not likely to be repeated, thankfully; feelings like that were just not natural.

 

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

 

A surge of frozen rain, shards of hail raking across the glass, rattled the window in its frame and brought Draco back to the present. The storm was in full force now, the wind howling through the town. It definitely matched his mood now, Draco thought with a grunt, bleak and cold.

 

He thought about how his relationship with Hermione had changed after their encounter in Hogsmeade. It had started with him simply being impressed with her drinking skills. He had also quite liked her demand for order and control, to be heard and obeyed – so much precision in her actions, so very like a Malfoy. She had been a prissy know-it-all before, a bossy little madam who thought she was better than everyone. But another side had been revealed to him that day, a side that had never been seen by him.

 

He had been determined to find out more.

 

The remainder of the year had seen Draco Malfoy pursuing Hermione Granger with diligence and focus – he needed to know her and what he wanted, he got, no matter the cost. Hermione had been confused by his new attitude towards her but eventually found herself relaxing with him, talking normally, rather than always on the verge of hitting him with something. And she called him “Draco” instead of “Malfoy” or “Ferret”. They still argued, heatedly at times, but it never became a problem between them.

 

They became closer still and, one night later that year, just before Christmas, they became lovers. It had been an accident really, as much as that sort of thing could be an accident; she didn’t exactly trip and fall onto him, but firewhiskey played its part again. The first time had been a surprise, the second time even more so.

 

But now it was all over between them.

 

A gloriously, wonderful four years, gone - all because Lucius Malfoy had forbidden Draco permission to marry a Mudblood. A dalliance had been one thing but marriage? Never! The arguments had been extraordinary, the Malfoy men’s explosive tempers unleashed in the privacy of Lucius’ study. He was amazed it had never come to blows.

 

“Oi, Draco!” yelled Theo suddenly, breaking through his reverie. “Cheer up! You’re bringing us all down with your mood. Have another shot of Blishen’s!” The other lads laughed and encouraged him to join in as Theo poured another shot from the bottle of Blishen’s Firewhisky.

 

“Ah,” said Blaise, dismissively after a few moments. “He’s still pining over his lost love isn’t he?”

 

Over the sound of the others laughing and mockingly sympathising with him, he heard Pucey’s voice. “You’re better off shot of her, mate. Dirty blood like that can only bring you down.”

 

In an instant, Malfoy had a hold on Adrian’s collar and dragged him across the booth. “Don’t you ever talk about Hermione like that again, you hear me? Never!” The others looked stunned for a moment, Pucey just stared at Draco, goggle-eyed and frightened at the fire in his friend’s voice.

 

“Alright, Draco, alright,” he stammered. “Easy now, I’m sorry.”

 

“Ease up Malfoy,” Blaise muttered, gently helping to extricate Pucey from Draco’s grip, the older man starting to go purple from the pressure. “Come on, we’re all friends here. Adrian didn’t mean anything by it, did you, Pucey?”

 

Adrian shook his head, still struggling to speak past the pain in his throat as the clock above the bar gave off a tinkle and a chime to signal the hour – 1 o’clock in the morning. Draco grabbed his coat and, stepping over Theo, left the booth and headed for the door. His friends protested, begged him to stay but Draco muttered something that was indistinguishable and stalked out of the pub.

 

“Draco! How’ve you been?” called a figure in light coloured robes, made dark by the rain. Draco ignored him, still muttering under his breath as he shrugged into his coat and took a step forward, turning on the spot. With a sharp bang, like a Weasley firecracker exploding, Draco Malfoy Disapparated away from Hogsmeade – the echo rolled around the town, accompanied by the rumble of the thunder as the storm flexed its muscles.


	3. Can’t Take It - Can’t Fight It

The whip-crack of Draco’s appearance was almost lost in the roll of thunder and his sudden arrival startled the only other occupant of this section of Knockturn Alley. The hunched crone gave a startled yelp and staggered out of the doorway she had been using as a shelter. With a curse in his direction she vanished into the water-logged streets.

 

Draco barely noticed her as his breath was taken away by the ferocity of the storm. The intensity of the weather, here in London, was terrifying compared to Hogsmeade. The wind surged around his body, dragging at his robes; mischievous hands trying to pull him over. The rain poured down on him and he was instantly soaked to the skin. Each clap of thunder came on the heels of the lightning flash; the storm was here in full force. Gasping for breath Draco pushed through, not knowing where he was heading, using the storm as a flail to drive him on. His head spun as the cold air sent the whiskey to his brain, drunk for real now and staggering slightly.

 

He should have taken her and ran. His father would have been angry but at least Draco would have kept Hermione. And he could have protected her. The Malfoy men had been shouting and arguing back and forth for several days before Draco had, impulsively, declared that he would marry Hermione regardless of his father’s wishes. But Lucius always had one ace left up his sleeve.

 

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

 

**Two Weeks Ago…**

 

The bone china cup shattered as it hit the stone fireplace, tea spattering across the hearth and the house elf stood to one side. The elf bore the sting of the hot liquid without flinching.

 

“Damn it, father!” yelled Draco, throwing his chair back and standing. He slammed his hands down on Lucius’ desk, rattling the remaining cups in their delicate saucers.

 

Lucius merely looked at his son, one eyebrow quirked. “Calm yourself, Draco. This is not an unreasonable situation to find yourself in,” he said quietly. His voice was calm but there was an undercurrent of steel. “As the heir to the Malfoy fortune you have a duty.”

 

“Oh, duty!” Draco spat, stalking away from the table. “You talk of duty like it means something now! Think of the ‘duty’ we had, just a few years back, to support Him! It brought this family to the point of ruin! And you turned your back on Him at the last! Don’t you dare tell me that duty is so fucking important!”

 

“You go too far, son,” Lucius hissed, standing now, anger flashing in his grey eyes.

 

“I don’t care!” roared Draco, rounding on his father again. “I don’t care about your damn ideals. I care about Hermione! She loves me! Even after everything that happened to her, in our home. She has been able to look past that and forgive me, to see me; not my name, my family’s wealth or the shit that covers our past. _Me!_ She is the only thing I have, the only person that doesn’t look at me and remember Him! I _am_ going to marry her, father, with or without your blessing.”

 

“You dare take that tone with me?” Lucius stepped around the desk and closed on Draco. “This family is one of the few in this world that is still pure and untainted. I will _not_ let you ruin that tradition by marrying beneath your status!”

 

Despite himself, Draco took a step back as his father stepped closer. Lucius’ face was filled with rage but Draco fought against the fear that gripped his stomach and stepped forward to meet the Lord of the Manor. “I am marrying only one person, father. Hermione Granger. I have already proposed to her and she has accepted me! Asking for your blessing was merely a formality.” With a sneer Draco turned away and walked towards the door of the study. “There’s nothing you can do.”

 

“You forget who you are talking to, my son.”

 

Draco froze, his hand on the handle, a sudden spike of fear ripping through him. He heard Lucius step closer and, swallowing, Draco struggled to keep his voice level. “What are you talking about?”

 

Lucius’ voice was smooth and calm, emotions under control once more. “There was a reason that I was the Dark Lord’s second in command, Draco.” Lucius spoke directly into Draco’s ear. “Think of the things that one would have had to do, in order to achieve such a lofty position.”

 

Draco felt his knees tremble as his father stepped away once more. His thoughts raced wildly, fear for Hermione’s safety chief amongst them.

 

“Consider, my son, the sort of people who wanted the position, the people I had to… out do… in order to gain my position.” Lucius paused as Draco finally turned and slumped against the door. Lucius smiled coldly. “You have no idea what I am capable of, Draco.”

 

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

 

It had taken all of the fight out of Draco. Lucius’ smooth and silky words afterwards, assuring his son that he was making the right decision, had only made him feel sick, manipulated.

 

And so, Draco had said awful things to Hermione; horrible words that burned the back of his throat now to think of them. He had lied to her, told her that she was nothing to him - all so she would hate him. Hate him and be safe.

 

But he couldn’t get her smile out of his mind, the feel of her skin under his hands, the smell of her hair. Did she still think of him in any way other than anger? Was there a part of her that wanted him? He knew where his thoughts were leading him, knew that he wanted Hermione back – in truth he had never stopped wanting her. He regretted every horrible word he had said to her, every lie he had told to make her hate him. It had taken everything he had to tell her those hateful things that night. His looks of disgust had been for himself, for not having the courage to tell her everything.

 

Could she ever forgive him after what he said? He didn’t want to lose her but knew that it was probably too late. Even if he found the nerve to confront his father, battled to keep Hermione as his, to keep her safe from Lucius… would she take him back?

 

Draco let out a snort of laughter, which was lost in a blast of thunder. He flicked his drenched hair out of his eyes, stepping into Diagon Alley. The wind howled down the narrow street, a wild creature driving all before it, and Draco ducked his head and pushed onwards. In his drunken state he was making little progress, staggering sideways more often than forwards. If someone had said those things to him, would he ever forgive them? Part of him wanted to say, yes, because there had been good reason. The rest of him, the realistic side, knew the truth: there was no way that he would forgive half of the things he said to Hermione, no matter the reason.

 

He was convinced he had, in giving in to his father’s demands, destroyed any hope of getting her back. A feeling of helplessness and self-loathing rolled over him as the sky was split apart by lightning, thunder hammering his eardrums. The concussive force of the blast, striking the weather vane at the top of Gringotts bank, drove him to his knees. The wind surged forward, sensing weakness and pulling at his robes, buffeting him mercilessly. A roar of near animal rage ripped from his throat as he screamed into the storm.

 

The rain water that pooled between the cobbles soaked into his trousers. The rain that lashed down from the sky pinged off his skin with stinging force. Draco slumped to the side, alone on the normally busy street. His stomach clenched with revulsion at what he had done to Hermione. She had stood by him through so much in the last four years but he had not given her a chance, failing to tell her of the danger threatened by Lucius thereby allowing her to have a say. He had taken that choice away from her; assuming, like the arrogant prick that he was, that she wouldn’t be able to handle the danger.

 

What gave him the right? She fought in the second war. She was tortured in front of him by his insane aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange. She fought in the Last Battle, incapacitated Fenrir Greyback and duelled the very woman who had tortured her. She stood up to You-Know-Who all the way to the end and had not been afraid to speak His name, when every other witch and wizard had been. What right did he have to assume what she could or could not handle?

 

Draco sat in a puddle, cold and shivering: could things be changed? He could talk to his father again. Tell him that he had meant what he had said, that he was going to marry Hermione (if she would still have him), whether he liked it or not! The fact that Lucius was likely to tear him down for defying him didn’t scare him anymore. Living in this wretched state without Hermione was what really scared him now. But would his father even listen to him?

 

There was only one way to find out, he figured. As the clock at Gringotts chimed the quarter hour, Draco gripped his wand and staggered to his feet, leaning against the wind that still wailed down the street. Steeling his nerve and fixing his destination firmly in his mind, he Disapparated.

 

With a loud CRACK he appeared in the main hallway of Malfoy Manor, stumbling forward. The disappearance of the wind threw him off balance for a moment and he drunkenly tried to compensate. The result was him in the hallway, half crouched and wobbling precariously with his arms outstretched. It put him at eye level with one of the family’s house elves.

 

The elf, wearing a dirty pillow case, bobbed a brief bow in his direction before vanishing with a slurping rush of air. No doubt the elf would tell his father that he was home. He would be in his study: Lucius kept strange hours these days and often didn’t retire until the early hours and, even then, he barely slept. His father worked hard to erase the memory of his family’s involvement with You-Know-Who. In his drunken state, Draco knew that he could talk to his father, make him understand. With the assurance of the inebriated, he knew he could convince his father of _anything_!

 

Flicking his wand, he drew the rain out of his clothes and hair and unsteadily manoeuvred the resulting globe of water towards the decorative bucket set to the side of the front door. Letting it drop, the water hit the marble floor with a splash, Draco gave himself a shake to settle his now dry clothes.

 

He had taken only a few steps towards the stairs when the large fireplace on the left hand wall of the great entrance hall flared a bright green. The jade flames leapt in the grate as a dishevelled Hermione, dressed in a short night gown and her dressing robe, stumbled out over the hearth.

 

Taken aback Draco could only stare for the moment, marvelling at how beautiful she was, how much he had missed her; she was incredible, even with her wild hair, red eyes and frenzied expression. “Hermione?” he gasped, confused. “Wha…?”

 

She had taken two unsteady steps before she saw Draco.

 

“You!” she yelled, pointing her wand in his general direction. Her voice cracked slightly as she shouted and Draco kept a close eye on the wand gripped in her hand. “The last two weeks have been hell for me!” she shrieked. “Do you have any idea? I’ve hidden from my friends! I’ve taken time off work! I swore I’d never speak to you again, cross the street if I ever saw you!”

 

The wand became more accurately aimed as she closed in on him, stabbing towards his face. Draco could only focus on the wand tip, convinced she was here to blast him. He opened and closed his mouth ineffectually, his own wand held loosely in his hand, forgotten.

 

Draco began to speak but she shouted over him.

 

“I’m not letting you go so easily! I don’t care what your father says, who he bloody well thinks he is; I’m not giving up on us!” She was only a few feet away now and Draco knew that she was probably as drunk as he was, though her tirade was quickly sobering him. He could see her slightly unfocused eyes, the sway as she stood there, the smell of wine on her breath. He felt his heart soar as her words sank in.

 

“I have never,” she hissed, gesturing with her wand. “Never backed down from something I believed in. I fought and risked everything in the war to take down Voldemort! You!” She took another step towards him. “You are not getting away from me! Consequences and Lucius bloody Malfoy be damned. You are _my_ man! _Mine_! And you are going to accept me as I am or I am going to hex you into oblivion!”

 

Draco could feel a stupid grin forming on his face. His heart was pounding and his skin tingled. It was the most ridiculous feeling he had ever had and he knew that smiling might not be the best idea at the moment. Sure enough, Hermione’s face tightened in anger when she saw his grin but he couldn’t have stopped smiling if his life depended on it; which, he realised with an involuntary laugh, it just might do.

 

“Don’t you laugh at me, Malfoy!” she yelled, her wand inches from his face. “Blood purity is not _that_ bloody important! You proposed to me! You love me, I know you do! I love you and no-one should be able to stop us being together and doing what we want. Not Lucius, not some French slut – no-one!! I am…”

 

What she was about to say was lost as Draco closed the remaining distance between them, sweeping her wand aside and capturing her mouth with his. His arms wrapped around her body and he felt her legs leave the ground and wrap tight about his waist. Her hands gripped his hair, painfully tangled in it as she returned his kiss with passion.

 

It was some time before either of them surfaced for air. Hermione looked into Draco’s eyes, searching them for something. She smiled hesitantly. “Really?” she asked. “I thought…”

 

Draco nodded, gazing into her eyes. “I love you and I’ve missed you so much. I’m sorry for everything I said. I lied to you, Hermione. Father threatened you and I had to end it before he hurt you. There is no French daughter for me to marry; I made that up to drive you away. There only ever was you. Can you ever forgive me?”

 

In answer Hermione, her own heart leaping in her chest, kissed him again and hugged him close. After a moment she wriggled out of his grasp and stood on the cold, marble floor again. She smiled up at Draco - then pulled back her hand and slapped him hard across the face. The sound of the strike echoed around the hallway and Draco let out a pained yell, staggering away from Hermione, hand to his face, eyes wide with shock.

 

“Wha…? What was that for?!” he yelled.

 

Hermione smiled sweetly and walked up to him again, pulling his hand away and planting a gentle kiss on Draco’s abused cheek. “Never assume to know what I can or cannot handle ever again. You are _partially_ forgiven.” She kissed his rueful smile with a small laugh and wrapped her arms around him, putting her head on his chest and closing her eyes, savouring the feel of his arms as they encircled her. "You will continue to be punished until I am satisfied." She smiled as he kissed the top of her head. "It could take years, you know?"

 

"That's fair enough, I suppose," he murmured.

 

“So… what _are_ we going to do about your father?” she whispered. She slapped him lightly on the chest as he laughed at her. “I know what I said just now but if he threatened me, then we need to work out how we are going to do this, don’t we?”

 

Draco smiled and brushed some of her wild hair away from her face. “There’s nothing we can’t handle together,” he said as he turned on the spot and the pair of them vanished with an echoing report.

 

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

 

Above, on the balcony, unseen by the two lovers, Narcissa Malfoy put her wand away. She stood for a moment, staring down at the point from which the young lovebirds had vanished. There had been a moment when she had thought that Draco might have needed defending. Lucius would need to know about this.

 

Turning away from the balcony she began to walk along the richly appointed corridors of Malfoy Manor. The marble floors echoed with her footsteps, the decorations and tapestries on the walls showed off the wealth of the Malfoy family but Narcissa barely noticed. Her thoughts raced as she considered all that she had heard.

 

Reaching an ornate door, beautifully decorated with runes and strange symbols, Narcissa tapped lightly and waited.

 

“Enter,” said a voice from beyond and she pushed the door open, stepping into the warmth of her husband’s study.

 

“Ah, Narcissa, my dear,” said Lucius, briefly looking up from his letter before returning to his writing.

 

“Husband,” she replied warmly, walking forward to plant a chaste kiss upon his cheek, before settling into a chair in the corner.

 

There was no sound for a moment other than the crackle of the fire in the large hearth and the scratch of Lucius’ quill across the parchment. Narcissa plucked her sewing from the hands of her house elf, who had appeared silently and vanished just as quietly.

 

Lucius looked up at his wife. “The elf’s news that our son has returned was correct, I presume?” Narcissa nodded as she rethreaded her needle. “Furthermore, I take it that that awful caterwauling just after Draco’s arrival means that Miss Granger has also come to call at this ungodly hour?”

 

“She has indeed. She seemed keen on speaking to Draco at some length, at turns reviling him and then praising him.”

 

“Is Draco still in one piece?” Lucius asked lightly, returning his gaze to the letter. A small frown creased his forehead as he reread the previous paragraph before continuing with his scratching. “I presume that Draco _was_ the focus of her impassioned yelling?”

 

His wife smiled slightly to herself. “He was, though your name came up in conversation. I believe that Miss Granger is giving our son a thorough examination as we speak, my dear.”

 

“I see. So the boy intends to defy me after all, then, despite the risks to Miss Granger’s life that I so… carefully… hinted at…” he said with a tight smile but Narcissa interrupted before he could continue.

 

“It would appear so, my dear.” Her eyes never left her sewing though she was aware of Lucius’ gaze upon her. Unruffled and serene, she said, “Draco has been brooding for the last two weeks over what was said, to you and to Miss Granger. He deeply regrets losing her – it was inevitable that he would want her back.”

 

Lucius’ quill dipped into the ink pot and resumed its march across the page. “Draco confided in you on this matter?”

 

Narcissa shook her head slightly. “Not in words, husband. But a mother sees. A mother knows her son’s mind well enough. Draco has never been able to hide anything from me. He confided in Miss Granger tonight that, together, they could handle anything. Including you, I would presume”

 

“Is that so?” Lucius said quietly. Putting down his quill in the ink pot he sprinkled sand from his pounce pot, across the page, and laid it gently to one side. Standing, he collected his cane and stalked towards the door before turning back to his wife. “Miss Granger has no blood heritage, her parents were both Muggles. I have given him my reasons for my refusal, did I not?”

 

“I believe that you did, darling. I’m sure that Draco is aware of Miss Granger’s many failings in your eyes.”

 

“And yet, he will go against my wishes,” he said quietly, holding out his hand to Narcissa. The Lady’s personal house elf appeared in that instant and collected the sewing that she held out, gathering it carefully, and vanishing again. Taking her husband’s hand, Narcissa stood and smiled at him.

 

“What do you intend to do about this… refusal… to bow to your will, husband?” asked Narcissa, looking up at Lucius through her lashes.

 

“Under the circumstances? I think I shall be pleased that he is acting like a true Malfoy. Malfoys get what they want and do not let anything or anybody stand in their way. If he had married Miss Granger in his previous state of mind, it may not have lasted. And we do _not_ divorce! This family’s name has been dragged through the mud enough of late. I have worked too hard these last few years to have all my effort undermined by Draco’s love life.” Lucius kissed Narcissa gently on the cheek and she gave a gentle laugh.

 

Narcissa squeezed Lucius’ hand. “Miss Granger will be a good addition to the family. She is a heroine of the war and her name, merged with ours can only raise our profile once more. She makes our son happy, too,” she said. “Also, the fact that Draco has had to fight you in order to gain Hermione’s hand… I think they will be very happy together.” She smiled at her husband, stretching up to kiss him softly on the lips. Lucius returned the kiss and felt his wife melt into him.

 

After a while they parted, Narcissa’s face slightly flushed with pleasure. Lucius looked at her with a hunger in his eyes, but business, as usual, had to come first. “Shall we go and give the happy couple our blessing?”

 

Narcissa smiled and patted Lucius on the cheek. “I would give them a while, dear,” she laughed. “There will be plenty of time in the morning.” Coyly she played with the ties at the neck of Lucius’ shirt, gazing up at him with hungry eyes. “Come to bed now, my love – I’ll let you give _me_ your approval instead.”

 

With a laugh, Lucius swept Narcissa into his arms and the pair of them vanished with a rush of smoke.

 

_~* nox *~_


End file.
